


Is that a yes?

by SecretReyloTrash (BadOldWest)



Series: Trash Triplets AUs. [3]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ben Solo - Freeform, Dark Rey, F/M, Fluff, Gift Fic, Inspired by Lilithsaur, Kenobi triplets, Kira - Freeform, Kira Kenobi - Freeform, Oral Sex, Smut, Solo triplets, Trash Triplets - Freeform, Trash triplets AU, Wedding, of Course Daisy and Matt Have A Ridiculous Theme Wedding, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 02:45:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19454710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadOldWest/pseuds/SecretReyloTrash
Summary: “I’m burning this dress immediately,” she says through clenched teeth.“No objections here if I get to watch.”The photographer clears his throat, loudly, from behind the camera.





	Is that a yes?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilithsaur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithsaur/gifts).



“You look…”

“Hazardous.”

_“...orange,”_ he groans, as if admitting he is caught not finding a better word.

His arms snake around her waist anyway.

He remedies the slip up quickly, efficiently, as he always does:

“Hazardous. Yeah. Dangerous to my fucking sanity.”

He kisses the bright strap across her muscular shoulder, a grin pricking his mouth as Kira growls hotly in his grasp.

She’s still irritated at the first word, simmering on his observation that somehow pinpointed and aggravated the source of her rage like it so often did. Not that he needed to look hard to find the source of this annoyance. Up until the organ music began to play she looked mad enough to spit.

Then she hid tears, badly because of streaky eyeliner, when her sister came down the aisle, floating on her Grandad’s arm.

That boiling exterior came back the second that _man and wife_ was declared between their siblings.

“I’m burning this dress _immediately,”_ she says through clenched teeth.

“No objections here if I get to watch.”

The photographer clears his throat, loudly, from behind the camera.

_“If we can get the rest of the bridal party in for the next shot, that’d be great.”_

The rest of the bridal party is currently picking at bouquets, adjusting cufflinks, tightening dress straps: anything to avoid stepping in between the poorly-thought out shot of Maid of Honor Kira and Best Man Ben by the idyllic little lakeshore.

(Rey and Kylo were relieved to sit out the more extreme wedding party duties in lieu of watching their two toddlers for the weekend instead).

Ben’s big hand rubs against Kira’s stomach, possessive, that unnerving darkness that only she feels curl over her shoulder just as she tosses her secretive softness back for him to grasp the edges of.

“Smile pretty, baby,” he tells her softly, “the pictures are forever.”

* * *

“This is not bad cake,” she declares, her mouth full and perfectly displaying a purple frosted rose before it squishes to mush between her sharp canine teeth.

Ben touches softly at the feet in his lap: bare and wiggly. Relaxed. Surprisingly soft. She doesn’t have a lot of beauty “musts” outside the heavy eyeliner: but she likes spicy-smelling lotions and her skin is hardened but smooth.

The first time he had ever seen Kira’s feet in just _socks,_ he was scandalized. Ben spent most of their teenage study-session when that happened hiding an erection under his textbook like he didn’t know what to do with it. Like he wasn’t the kind of guy in high school that got into all sorts of trouble with what he decided to do with his hard dick. She had kicked off those massive combat boots to get comfortable on his desk chair, him on his bed, keeping careful distance between each other.

There they were.

Her glaring down at the textbook like it owed her money.

And him. Watching her socked feet wriggle as she focused.

It was the bluntest and most seductive striptease he’d ever seen.

The delicate ball of her foot, and her covered, curled toes, those things didn’t exist in any way but fantasy before when cloaked under all the hardened black leather, filled him with an urge to touch so deep within himself that the minute her granddad's car’s headlights vanished down his driveway with her safely inside, he punished his cock with want for her for an embarrassing portion of the night. It was like he’d never jerked off before.

It was like he’d never had sex before.

It felt that way then because seeing or touching that part of Kira was the most erotic thing that had ever entered his young mind.

It feels that way now because _everything Kira_ is the most erotic thing to enter his not-much-wiser mind.

He curls his fingers around the arch very gently under the table, tickling the sensitive skin.

Kira keeps eating and kicks at him in warning. Her awareness of his poetic musings about everything involving her only makes chance appearances. It’s not here now that there’s cake in her hands.

Atmospheric neon lights that Daisy and Matt chose for their wedding motif shine on her nose ring as she chews.

Kira is a challenge, maybe his greatest one, but in a way that was never going to be solved.

He prefers it that way.

_“It’s good cake,”_ she calls him back to the moment pointedly with high-raised eyebrows, gesturing with her fork. He relents, leaning forward and accepting a silky-creamed rosette on his tongue from the end of her utensil. It melts immediately.

Daisy spent months talking Kira’s ear off over this wedding caterer, and because of that Kira spent months talking his ear off about this wedding caterer.

That single bite is pretty worth it.

Kira rolls her eyes as he quickly swallows the sugar down and eagerly opens his lips to her for another taste.

* * *

  


It’s that time in the wedding reception he knew was coming: she even warned him it was coming in bed the other night.

That’s how much this was building.

_“I’m going to fucking lose it when she’s gone,” she had said, in a completely calm voice, her hand on his chest. “She’s my little sister.”_

_“You’re exactly the same age.” He wondered aloud, not sentimental at all that he was also only one third of a single birth._

_She buried her face in his chest with a sad sigh._

And it’s the slow-dance after Matt and Daisy leave the reception as newlyweds where Kira slumps into his body and lets herself be turned around under his hands.

She cries silently into his suit jacket. He was spared Daisy’s _affinity_ for bright orange, just a gray-green tie as the only splash of color of his outfit.

In a weird way that he’s too frayed apart at the seams to talk about, he thinks about how this is the night they never had too: even though for Matt and Daisy it is the optimistic belief that they would have been in love if given the chance, for Ben it is the knowledge that he had been in love with her during that chance they missed.

Recovering now, lost time turned to powder behind him, he presses his lips to the crown of her resting, weeping head.

“Have I told you that you look beautiful tonight?”

She punches him as she cries, only he knows she’s actually crying, and he hides it from everyone else in the room with capable arms.

He’s the only one who gets to know what Kira’s really feeling. He’ll guard that with his life.

“Honestly, you’ll stop traffic--”

She punches him in the gut, hard, but keeps her grasp on him tight.

They manage a slow twirl while he recovers.

He only dares ask when she’s lightened her tears, her breath steady and soft against his neck. He’s still bent over her, shielding her, as they sway.

“How you holding up tonight, my perfect girl?”

“I’m good,” she answers, her voice a little tight, but he’s pretty sure that it’s the cruel but effective combo of the question and the endearment. She squeezes his shoulders. “Helps that you’re here. Thank you, baby.”

She doesn’t use the word as often as he does. It sounds a little sarcastic when he says it: but they both know that exact thing is how the sentiment makes her a little wet every time.

Ben’s a little more calculating: Kira doesn’t even know she just went for the jugular. He’s hers. Plain and simple, like every precious chunk of affection he’s mined from her.

“Want me to help you out of here, then?”

* * *

“I want this,” she gestures wildly behind her back, which happens to be facing him, at the zipper of the dress, “gone. Destroyed.”

“And I want it,” he spins her and hefts her hips up onto the dresser, _“on._ And destroyed.”

Her protesting grunt echoes across the walls of the hotel suite. Not paid for by the wedding party: but his gift to her for the night.

He lifts the orange taffeta underskirt. Someone tried to explain the vintage prom theme of Matt and Daisy’s wedding to him multiple times at this point. Still doesn’t make any sense to him. Something awkward and bruisingly sweet about how neither of them ever went to prom, so now it was like they got to go together.

Matt had added only one suggestion to the entire planning, the element of prom-themed horror movies, much to Daisy’s delight: so there were silky pink cupcakes bathed in drippy red icing, and one of his D&D friends was crowned “Queen” and while in on the joke, bravely took a bucket of fake blood dumped on his head.

It looked like Matt and Daisy were having fun.

He thinks back and sort-of-remembers having a threesome at his prom. Was it at prom? There were dresses involved. A limo.

_Maybe homecoming?_

Either way when his fiery lab partner found out she was steaming mad at him.

Kira also didn’t go to prom their senior year, and he had asked her. Even if she thought he was kidding. The Friday before, he drawled his way to her side by her locker, asking who was taking her in his stead, and she slammed the door shut very close to where his nose was and said _no one_ and walked away.

Instead of trying again, he had tried _someone else_ as a palate cleanser, and felt sick instead of better. Even to this day.

There was a constant, lingering burn of the past inside Ben, only soothed by Kira. It was like he had to constantly fuck up again and again and come out of it new, and trying harder, until she finally relented and he was finally someone that deserved that chance.

It wouldn’t be the same if he had always been.

Kira was a bridesmaid in this wedding, and thereby unwillingly complicit in this charade, traps her in a bright orange Betsy Johnson-esque number that makes her look like she’s wearing a dress that deer hunters would wear to Easter Mass.

True to his word, he yanks the neckline between his hands sharply, and she yelps as the bodice of the still-zipped dress is opened at the front to expose her breasts. He should have kept it pretty, shyly lifted her skirts and whispered gently in her ear like he was her high school sweetheart deflowering prom date. Instead he ripped that dress open, and the air cooling her breasts stiffens her nipples too temptingly to not dive in--

Her phone rings. They know because it was once nestled, and is now hanging precariously, from the undercarriage of the bust of her dress.

“Baby, don’t answer it--”

Kira has already drawn it to her ear.

“Rey?”

Her brows are raised in annoyance, but Kira has been jumpier at any sign this day was going to be a disaster. Between fear that the caterer would fuck up or that their mom would show up, Ben has watched her snap at little provocations, her eyes round with fear, and this is now different with her sister on the phone. He can hear it echoing through her head: is it Daisy? Is it Matt? Did Grandad pass out? Is everyone okay?

He holds her hand and smoothes it on little careful circles as Rey talks.

Kira’s expression softens.

“Hey, Owen,” she takes on a slightly different tone to her voice, only people close to her would notice it’s softer, because it is still pretty dry and low to be talking to a child. “How are you? Can’t sleep?”

Like a shark scents blood, Owen sought attention from his Aunt Kira, and he could smell her from a mile away.

And it’s not like Kira _didn’t_ climb off Ben’s dick in the midst of riding it just because she got a text about her Godson having a nightmare all but one evening ago.

Ben worries a breast under his hand, while keeping the other one protectively around Kira’s free one, and she leans back and lets him, focusing on the conversation. Owen is stiff competition for her attention, Ben only slightly resents it, and she’s letting Ben have his consolation by playing with her like _he_ needs the distraction.

“Uh huh. No monsters. I checked,” Kira shifts her hips when Ben pinches a nipple, not hard, but enough to worry it against the metal bar through it, and then uses the rough fabric of the gown to drag over the sensitive peak. “Ask your mom. I _know_ she checked. She’s a lawyer, she has done her _due process—”_

“Tell him I will personally go over there and kill any monsters there so I can have five minutes alone with Auntie Kira.” He hisses in her opposite ear, free hand cupping her chin as the one playing with her breast travels downward.

“Tell your mom that your dad would have checked better,” the girl in his arms is still focused on her nephew: but struggling on the hook of both the current moment and whatever responsibility she has to Owen. “She’ll super-super check then.”

“You don’t want to get the kid killed.”

“She’ll kill Kylo instead,” and that lapse where she gives him even a glance is when it’s done.

Half a glance from Kira was worth a lifetime for him: it signaled a victory that not even she could deny the value of.

Kira lets out an unintentional growl as Ben purposefully swipes his knuckle through her folds.

“ _Iloveyouandi’msurethere’snomonsterspinkiepromise—_ “

He hangs up the call for her, her strong thighs tight around his searching hand. The way it vanishes under the fluffy orange skirt is utterly debased to him: he grins like a sick motherfucker out of the pleasure of some stark contrast looking so naughty.

“So pretty like this,” he hauls her hips up against his to run a noticeable erection into her wetness. She groans, a little scramble from being pulled so violently back and forth. She was the middle sibling of triplets and somehow Owen and Ben competed for her attention like she’d never experienced before.

Owen usually won, but it was past his bedtime.

“You gonna be my fucking prom queen?” He growls in her ear, nipping hard to juxtapose the softness of the title.

She snorts, her arms sliding around his neck.

“It’s one way to get more metal on my body...” she wonders aloud.

He grunts and snaps his hips into her welcoming body. She arches with a characteristic hiss. One pierced nipple is exposed from the pulled-down neckline of her dress, just the edge of it flushed red and pink against all the orange.

He bites back a moan of pleasure.

Her full attention on him, even as he fought so dirty for it, is searing him now.

“You like me this way?”

It’s a question and an accusation: she doesn’t look much like herself now. He can understand her trepidation at his attraction to the candy-colored dress.

“I like you every fucking way,” he presses his brow to hers. She relents enough to be silent and still, not arguing, so he undoes his suit pants and frees his cock.

Of course, she doesn’t tolerate his perceived control on the situation for long: he can have it, he just can’t act like he does, and spins them, pinning his back to the role.

“I think someone wants attention,” she hedges, her teeth bared, and the removal of his suit his a haphazard process. The color of that dress had warned him of danger ahead.

He’s properly prepared for it.

Her mouth is like a fucking vice around him, pain and pleasure, the threatening drag of teeth was something that was a mistake at first -he was her first blowjob and he’d die before thinking of anyone else being her last- that he never corrected becuase the sloppiness, the danger, is so much of the fucking appeal that he doesn’t know how to be hard without the feel of her teeth.

A hand slithers down between her legs as she works him, her thighs tight around the flicking fingers, and the jealous bastard in him, thinking about blowjobs and her firsts with him and more importantly his with her. First real love. First long term relationship. First ex he wanted back. First everything that matters. Everything he wants to mark on the wall like he’s a five-year-old showing how much he’s grown over the short life he’s had is fluttering in his chest and it fucking aches and swells.

Could he mark progress or mounting victories?

Because biohazard-hued bridesmaid dress is pretty impressive, but it’s hard to rival the one a few months ago where her bare shoulders rose and fell with an intense shudder and she lifted her head and they were both so hot together and in the moment and--

And then she screwed up her nose like she was smelling a bad smell and mumbled “are you close?”

“I can fuck you for a while,” he had gasped out, his mind on other things, “if you want. Come here.”

“No,” she was stroking him, the head of his leaking dick nudging at her cheek as she worked him absently, “I’m just…” she grunted, affection and guilt flickering across her face, “I’m just _really bored.”_

He did not cum sooner or later, admittedly, or at all, because he folded over with her head in his lap, his cock forgotten. Laughing harder than he had never laughed with his dick out.

“Sorry,” he wasn’t halfway sorry about it.

Her progress towards the end she was seeking was shot by her own honesty, but he’d never give it up, it was everything; he adored her more over that botched, honest blowjob than any of the ones that reached mind-shattering conclusion for them.

He needed no other convincing after that moment that he was going to marry her.

Honesty was always harder for sex for him. For them. They tried to use it sometimes when they were avoiding the hard bits, but this offering of her completely unfiltered feelings was so miraculous he had sacrificed the orgasm.

But only for Kira.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice an embarrassed sigh, “I’m tired. I can finish you if you want.”

“You would have to start all over, baby,” he wove a hand in her hair, the softness of it, in the rare moments like that when it was done, a marvel and thrill in themselves. He lifted his torso enough to drop a kiss on the crown of her head.

“Ben Solo...turning down a blowjob,” she marveled, her cheek on his thigh, her hand still stroking lightly. Affectionately.

Toying.

She was evil.

Right now she strokes herself as she works him, maybe the inverse of that feeling now, she’s occupied, and that nags harder than the night she got bored and they cuddled and made out until she fell asleep, admittedly very quickly after a long day at the gym. She had just gone full-time as a trainer there. That was a phase of happy exhaustion and a lot of bruises -mostly on Ben- and when she got used to the change in schedule she made up for something he didn’t need a remedy to.

It is one of the moments that calls to him that makes him know he loves her.

“Why are you touching that?” he whispers as she laps steadily at his head, pulling him between her lips and sliding steadily and obediently down, like he’s guiding her head. He doesn’t mean what’s in one hand, wrapped posessively around, but the fingers crawling inside herself because she like sit too, “Why are you touching your pussy when it’s mine?”

She growls at him but sucks him deep with a sort of resentful lashing out, in the form of sucking the life out of him, and he hisses but grins when she pops him straight out of her mouth.

“I’m not sure about that,” she murmurs softly.

He growls, tangling his hands in her hair.

“Yours?” she tilts her head up innocently. Only the lamp is on, so there’s a faint yellow glint to her nose ring.

There’s also been purple icing from one of the flowers on her chin this entire time. He keeps wondering when he’s going to tell her. He’s enjoying _not telling_ her a little too much.

“Yes,” he cups her cheeks reverently as she works with more fervor, the sucking kisses moving up and down his shaft in a way that makes his eyes clench closed.

“Interesting,” she may have been giving herself a casual touch before, but now she’s working herself harder than him, laughing about it smugly as he groans underneath her.

Evil, evil, _evil._

She starts with some insanely clever licks and some obscene sounds drifting up from her furiously moving fingers, sloppy, wet sounds filling the quiet room. There’s muffled moans from her, her mouth occupied by his cock, and he’s too shy of her darker intentions to let out a sound. Good for her.

He’s never been good in his life.

This doesn’t end the way she was picturing: but he knows them. They don’t start these things with each other picturing the end, just the other person responding, so her smile is smug not because she got what she wanted but because she got him to want so badly he took.

She’s not on the dresser. He’s not there either. She’s placed roughly on their hotel bed, too roughly for any human being alive that isn’t Kira, and she howls with delight at the force of it.

There’s an equally animalistic one that falls from his lips when he tears her panties off.

Dress stays on. Still ripped.

He loves that horrible, ugly thing. Because she’s filling it, giving it shape, spilling at the edges like traces of the sun between the trees. 

With a hot, slow breath that moves his entire body, he braces his hands on her spread thighs like he was just going in to massage her shoulders and kneaded his fingers gently into her labia.

He draws his shiny fingers in front of her eyes, rubbing the wet left there from her cunt with slow consideration, like a foreign substance.

“What’s this?”

His tone was innocent and curious, which made her roll her pinned hips desperately towards him all the more shamefully.

He takes an evaluating glance at her; held up and dripping with nowhere to hide.

“What is this, Kira?”

He noses at the inside of her thigh

“It’s a,” she cursed between her teeth with the soft crunch of broken glass. “It’s a present for you.”

_“Oh?”_ His not-so-innocent eyes dance at the game she started. When she doesn’t explain herself, he digs his thumbs into the sensitive skin creasing her thighs and her cunt, “Kira? Baby?”

She is dazed, her breath leaving in a cool sigh as he stroked his fingers through the slick.

He snaps the fingers of his free hand at her, and she shoved his head, hard, in response to the teasing going to far after she gave.

He laughs softly, apologetically mouthing at her thigh.

“What does it do?” He brings them back with an almost 1000% genuine rendition of Christmas Morning giddiness.

“It makes _your,”_ she whines and shoves up into his touches insistently when he brushes her sex again, this time with his lips, _“cock_ feel good inside me.”

He raises an eyebrow. Delighted. Too much so to be a complete asshole about it.

“How?” He marvels like a scientist contemplating a breakthrough in a round of experiments.

“My cunt makes it...so you can come inside,” she hisses, flight when pushed, to nothing less than the point of desperation, scrambling underneath his teasing. “With your big cock.”

“Baby,” he kisses her mound before dipping his open mouth to close over her clit, making her shriek. A wet pop of the suction releasing a moment later frees more words from him and a growl from her: “so _that’s_ how you do it. Thank you. I love it.”

She’s blushing so red under her freckles. He can’t help but grin as his tongue moves steadily over her folds.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Her thighs, without precedence, close around his head.

* * *

“What are you trying to get out of this?”

Her tone is casual, not unheard of even in the midst of instense sex, at least for them, but there’s a light laugh that it coasts along.

No one but him could that loving from her, but it’s there, the way she’s slightly mocking him.

She’s not being mean: he has been odd without precedence. Not letting her lie back, taking _forever,_ not letting her finish but working steadily and intently, not teasing, not stopping short just to rile her up. He just strokes inside, working his tongue over her clit. Her thighs shake, but she whines, because it feels good but she’s not close.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asks innocently with a low lap of his tongue over her pearl.

“What are you doing?” she huffs, and he laughs this time.

He is doing something, not just eating her pussy. It’s in his head, but explaining it is.

His fingers crook inside her in that deliberate, scientific way, and she gasps.

“You’re trying to get me to--”

She’s so offended her both lifts and hangs his head sheepishly.

“You’ve done it once before.”

“I’m not going to... _squirt.”_

It’s hard to get her to blush because she doesn’t like admitting she can be ashamed, she feels patronized by it. But she’s flushing like she used to in high school.

He laughs against her thigh.

“You did it before.”

Quite by accident, to his eternal delight.

Once!” she hisses, scandalized, and he renews his purpose in his touches, and somehow, the shame works for her. She’s squirming, resistant but anticipating and so willing for him to try. “That was years ago. I was a different person then.”

“Still Kira,” he smiles as his head vanishes under her skirt, “still mine.”

The sight of her gushing out from under the orange skirt is enough to wipe the memory of every other woman from his mind forever.

* * *

“Can I take this fucking dress off?”

It’s ruined, bunched up in his hands, material tight as a horses bridle around her body as he uses it to move her back and forth underneath him. Kira is in a rare state of zen, enough to be taken from behind, limbs bent and tense against the mattress, her gaze both lethal and dated like only hers can be.

Ben is pouring with sweat above her. Sex is common between them. As is sex that lasts a long time, multiple positions, ever since she moved out of the garage and into their own place. He christened that apartment thoroughly with their sweat, their soft groans, and he did the hotel room they inhabited for the night.

“No,” he growls possessively into her bare shoulder, because he’s pretending, because this is a night that could have been hers in an ugly poofy dress and him too torn open from just holding her on the dance floor and all of these feelings coming as a single thread instead of an obsessive tangle.

_“Why,”_ she whines softly, brow pressed into the pillows, shoulders trembling as he moves over her relaxed but muscular body.

He kisses her throat instead of answering. That’s not enough for someone like her, so a large hand dips between her legs as he moves to rub her clit gently enough to coax a soft but breathtaking orgasm out of her well-loved body.

She relents with a sigh and drops all the way onto her belly, allowing him complete access to her body.

He folds himself over her and thrusts until her neck arches and she cries out for him even though he’s already right there.

* * *

They’re just holding hands.

Kira runs hot, and their sweaty bodies are so raw after the intensity that they curve away from each other maybe to protect each other over themselves. But their hands are joined, squeezing occasionally, murmurs traveling across the expanse of the bed when they feel like talking, which isn’t much.

“Nice wedding,” Kira huffs, instead of marveling about details, “liked the cake.”

He nods, slowly opening his eyes to find hers closed, and blinks at her as if waking up. She’s sleepy, clearly. He watches her breathe.

“Why are you staring at me?” She grumbles softly, her nose wrinkling, and he would laugh if he wasn’t so terrified.

“Would you ever. Think about doing this?”

There’s only one pause, but it still makes him stiffen and blush over his error.

Kira sighs and shrugs.

“Depends.”

This answer seems more about momentary tiredness than their uncertain future, but he’s still frightened by it. And finally man enough to admit that loving Kira frightens him but it’s the only way he knows how to live.

“Do you want to do this, baby?” His voice is soft as his hands squeeze hers, “I’ve done…a lot. And there’s a part of me that loves you so much...that I just want someone good for you.”

Kira’s eyes glitter. There is a certain ethereal quality to it. Stunning, cold, like a malevolent and beautiful creature. Disappointed in his human failings.

That look had graced his guilty face maybe a thousand times.

It was usually a breaking-up look from her.

“So you make being good to me a job for someone else?” she answers quietly, calm and grave.

_No_. 

She shifts in bed, her eyes sort of shut. Cheek into the pillow. A parental voice chides him like it always does: _never go to bed angry._ A mantra they’ve failed countless times.

He feels the trust in it like there wasn’t in their earlier, more dramatic phases. Kira’s anger is a smoky black dragon resting over their bed. He can close his eyes in its presence. He and that beast have an understanding: a reluctant but adversarial sense of trust.

It’s not a monster lurking under the bed, it’s a monster that curls dovetailed with his own, the monster is welcome and understood just like her is. They are.

It’s not breaking up right now, but there’s a level of finality to it that cuts to the bone more than usual. That she still takes these offerings with a grain of salt. Kira has rejected many of his proposals. Prom. Being his girlfriend. Being his girlfriend again after some casual, out-of-state flirting. Being his girlfriend again—

Or his wife. Now twice. At least in a serious conext.

Half-joking might number in the thousands.

But it’s this one that hurts the most.

There were many times when Kira shut him out that he indignantly found himself entitled to not have to do anything at all.

Not now.

“Kira,” he touches her cheek gently, “no.”

She lifts her lids, her hazel eyes still holding that look and it flickers under the sheen of her irises. Awake. Alert. Guarded.

“It’s _my_ job,” he rubs her back as gently as humanly possible. “I don’t want anyone else to do it. I want it done in the way you deserve.”

The fire behind her eyes is put out. There’s a serene quality he usually only see after she’s been boxing.

It makes his own heart calm to a steady pace, what he might feel to be hers. There’s no substantial proof that the beats match as they slow, but their breathing is in sync in the moment and it’s easy to picture their pulses are gentle and true together.

“Maybe it’s about time…”

Her fingers trace his lips.

“...that I let that be your job for real.”

He is silent for a moment as he just stares at her. Not believing. Not one bit.

Usually the more you ask a question, the less it means something. Years of asking and asking with Kira actually strengthened his resolve, his desire for it, that he could still wait for her and be ready with an offer to see if they had both changed enough for her to escape.

It was the most important question the thousandth time it was asked.

“Is that a yes?”

Her smile tries to be maddeningly serene. But she’s too happy. Too full from the inside out with this _glow_ that only he can see.

“Yes.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a request from my wife Lilith! Hope you like it, darling!


End file.
